An Indistinguishable Anonym

A deafening “whale” of indistinguishable sounds all tangled into one broken moan filled the air and lingered like morning mist. It became impossible to focus before panic swallowed reason whole.

Then I looked up.

All around me stretched a sea of bodies. Some alive, some dead, and some caught somewhere in-between. The air itself was scarred by the stench of rotting carcasses and the sound of damned souls. Surely this is the crossing of worlds with no cross to save us.

What have I done!

Ahead of me, at the helm of the six-man ship, stands a figure resembling the Grim Reaper, a darkness constantly folding over his features. He perches at the head and decrees:

“Row. Do not stop. From this moment on, your judgment begins.”

With that,

The command lands heavy on each of our hearts. Whatever we’ve done to deserve this—whatever cruelties we carried through life—none of it matters now. What matters is that we are here. Condemned.

As we begin to row, obedience overtakes reason. The oars bite into the sea of flesh, and the feeling of hands pulling back is inescapable. Every stroke drags something unseen toward the surface, something that doesn’t want to let go.

On the boat,

Across from me, a woman rows with trembling hands. Her lips move soundlessly, forming prayers swallowed by the moaning sea. Beside her sits an older man, eyes hollow, his motion steady and mechanical, like he’s done this before.

To my right, a younger man pulls at the oar with anger instead of rhythm, every stroke a quiet rebellion. Another mutters to himself, words too faint to follow, face slick with sweat and disbelief.

At the stern, a small figure barely large enough to hold an oar struggles to keep pace. His breaths come short and sharp, but he keeps rowing, as if sheer will might save him.

None of us speak. The only language here is motion. The Reaper doesn’t look back, but somehow, I know he’s listening.

Always listening.

“Are we dead?” someone asks, voice thin and cracking.

No one answers at first. The oars keep moving and the wood groans; flesh scrapes the hull. Then another voice, rougher, replies, “If we were dead, it wouldn’t hurt this much.” A bitter laugh follows. The sound dies quickly, swallowed by the endless moaning around us.

Someone mutters that this must be a test and that an angel will come when the time is right. Another scoffs, calling it wishful thinking. The rest of us just row, pretending not to care.

The Reaper doesn’t speak, but the silence after each word feels like judgment.

Then,

A man’s voice breaks the tension. “We can’t just row forever,” he says. “There has to be land somewhere.”

Another answers, trembling, “There’s nothing but this. We row until we’re forgiven.”

“Forgiven?” The word comes out like a barked laugh. “You think an angel’s coming to scoop us out of hell?”

The praying woman glares across the boat, her voice brittle. “Faith is all we have left.”

“Faith?” he spits. “Faith put us here.”

The small one at the back glances up, eyes wide, desperate to speak but too scared. The old man rows on, unmoving, his stare locked on the horizon that doesn’t exist.

I want to say something—anything—but the Reaper shifts at the helm, the motion so slight it feels imagined. The air tightens. The sea grows quiet, listening.

Then, softly, the old man speaks:

“Row. If he wanted us gone, we’d be gone, and that’s that.”

So we row.

Minutes bleed into hours, not maybe days. There’s no sun, no moon, only the same institutional gray light pressing down from nowhere. The air doesn’t move, yet it suffocates all the same.

The sea beneath us feels alive like a tangle of mangled limbs. Sometimes a face surfaces, eyes open and searching, only to vanish again. Bodies crush the hull as we pass; others whisper things I can’t quite hear. Maybe they’re prayers. Maybe they’re curses.

The oars grow heavier. Our muscles tremble as our breath turns shallow. Still, we row. Because stopping means death. Because he’s still there, still silent and unblinking.

A voice mutters,

“It’s useless. We’ve rowed for hours, and still nothing. No shore—no nothing.”

“Keep rowing,” the old man says, voice hoarse.

“There has to be something!” The angry man kicks the planks beneath his feet, a hollow crack echoing across the void. For a moment, a gap splits open but then the wood seals itself again.

We all freeze.

The Reaper doesn’t turn. He doesn’t have to. His stillness is worse than violence.

The angry one laughs maniacally. “You see? Even hell won’t let us out.”

No one answers. The oars move again, slower now, each pull an act of desperation.

Time unravels. The air thickens. My thoughts drift in circles.

At last,

The small one begins to sob. “It’s pulling my oar—please, someone—help me!”

His arms shake; his hands are soaked, slick with sweat. I watch the shadows beneath the surface latch onto his oar, tugging, pulling it out of his grip.

He screams, but no one moves.

We were told to row.

His cry breaks into a gurgle, then silence. The oar floats for a moment, then disappears below.

“Row,” the Reaper says. His voice cuts through everything; final, hollow and absolute in his unwavering tone.

We row.

We know the math. Bodies fail; thirst wins; sleep comes with a blade. Hope flares, then gutters. Every road loops back to the same black harbor.

Then,

The woman slumps forward, her body folding over the oar. For a heartbeat, I think she’s fainted. Then the Reaper stands.

No sound. No hesitation. One gesture, and she’s gone—pulled overboard like she weighed nothing at all. The sea accepts her without a ripple.

The angry man stops next. He screams something and leaps overboard on his own. The bodies embrace the new flesh. Just a drop in the ocean. It’s hard to keep your sanity, let alone think clearly, with the sounds and smells so overwhelming. I don’t blame him.

Now there are three.

The old man rows in silence, eyes distant, moving by instinct alone. The muttering one hums under his breath, the tune slightly off-key and broken. I can’t tell if it’s madness or prayer.

At some point, the old man’s rhythm falters. His oar slips from his hands.

The Reaper moves.

The sound is soft—a breath, a whisper—and then the old man is gone.

The muttering stops. Only my oar moves now.

I row until the motion becomes thoughtless. Until the pain feels like belonging. Until I can no longer tell if the sound beneath me is water or voices.

I’m alone.

The Reaper stands at the bow, motionless as ever. Behind him, the sea writhes with the faces of the fallen. The boat feels smaller now—lighter, like it’s waiting for me to understand.

And I do.

There is no shore. No salvation. No end.

I stop rowing.

The world doesn’t stop. To the world I’m just one nobody in a sea of indistinguishable bodies. Unable to tell one from the other, skin so pale and limbs so gaunt it all blurs to the same.

The Reaper turns. Slowly. For the first time, I see his face—a void, infinite and consuming.

He tilts his head, as if waiting for me to beg.

I don’t.

Instead, I stand. My body sways with the boat. The oar slips from my hand, vanishing into the flesh below.

“If this is judgment,” I whisper, “then let it see me clearly.”

I dive.

The sea swallows me whole. It’s warm, thick, and endless. Hands reach for me—not to hurt, but to welcome. The deeper I sink, the quieter it becomes. Bodies drift around me, eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer.

I am nothing now. Simply an indistinguishable anonym.

At the bottom,

I see light faint, golden, flickering like a dying flame.

Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s nothing.

I reach for it anyway.

And for the briefest moment before the dark takes me,

I believe there’s something beneath it all worth reaching.